


Breaking Point

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tony Stark Survives Endgame, Frottage, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic and Science, Marriage to Break a Curse, Mutual Pining, Slow-ish burn, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-07-12 11:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Because of magic and its complete lack of sense, Tony currently has a splitting migraine that makes it hard to think, a body that aches in places he didn’t know could ache, and—oh yeah—according to Strange, none of that is going away until he gets married to someone.Super, magically, unbreakably married.





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).



> I loved so many things about your request and found your letter super inspiring, which is how this thing ended up about twice as long as I thought it would be /o\\. I drew from various parts of your letter, but most especially the marriage to break a curse freeform — as you said, the hurt/comfort possibilities were just so good. 
> 
> Set in a post-Endgame world where Tony just barely survived.

Tony really hates magic.

Science has rules. Logic. Internal structures that he can’t always see, but can always be confident are there. And aliens? Yeah, sure, why not, that’s just science on a larger scale. He can deal with that. Poorly, sometimes, but he does deal with it.

But magic? Magic makes no god damn sense. Strange insists it does have rules, but as far as Tony can tell that’s a lie. And because of magic and its complete lack of sense, he currently has a splitting migraine that makes it hard to think, a body that aches in places he didn’t know _could_ ache, and—oh yeah—according to Strange, none of that is going away until he gets married to someone.

Super, magically, unbreakably married.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, stretching out on the wizard’s couch. He presses an ice pack that has magically—literally, magically—appeared in his hand to his head. “And I’ve listened to Peter talk about classic rock.”

“Is it as stupid as putting a glowing ring found at an ancient sorcerer’s burial site on your finger?” Strange sits in an armchair a few feet away, straight and formal, legs crossed. His is face neutral, but he gives off the unmistakable air of finding this whole situation hilarious.

“First of all, it wasn’t glowing when I put it on.” Tony glances at the ring stuck on his left ring finger, stubbornly unmovable. A gold band that yes, is glowing, and burns a little to the touch; not enough to really hurt, but a constant, irritating reminder that he has managed to screw himself. “Second of all, who was the one doing who the favor here? You could’ve given a guy a heads-up.”

“I did not realize ‘don’t wear the magical artifacts’ was a necessary instruction.”

For a second there, after Strange saved him from the brink of death during their final battle with Thanos, Tony had started to warm up to him. He takes that back.

Not that he doesn’t have maybe a tiny bit of a point. But in Tony’s defense, the magical mystery gang hadn’t given him much to go on when they asked—nay, _begged_ —for his help swiping a handful of magical objects from an eccentric, wealthy collector who only shows his prized possessions to other billionaires. By the time Tony had stumbled on the object currently known as his worst nightmare he’d already pocketed a necklace and a strangely shaped box that rattled in a way that still gives him chills to think about. Under the circumstances, slipping the ring on had seemed like a perfectly natural way to steal it.

“Why in the world is there a ring that forces you to get married, anyway?” he asks, in an attempt to turn the conversation away from his personal contributions to the problem. “What purpose could that possibly serve?”

“It was used to enforce royal marriages in ancient Armenia, when the political situation was particularly tense,” Strange states blandly, as if it should be obvious. “Or when a royal heir was being stubborn.”

Okay, the bastard is _definitely_ finding this whole thing more amusing than he should.

“So.” Tony has to stop for a second as the world rushes around his ears, spinning. It’s highly unpleasant. “What happens if I buck the royal demand and stay a bachelor?”

Strange slips into what Tony has come to think of as his Sorcerer Supreme mode, voice going methodical as he explains that while there are tonics that will help keep the symptoms under control in the short term, ultimately, the longer Tony puts off marriage, the more frequent, and more intense, these attacks will become. At some point, they’ll ramp up until he’s living in constant, overwhelming pain.

Excellent. Just excellent.

“Okay,” Tony says slowly, trying to force his addled brain to focus on his options. “And when you say our vows would be unbreakable, is this a write your own kind of situation? I do solemnly promise to be the best wingman you ever did see?”

There’s that smirk again. Tony really wants to punch Strange in his smug face. “Unfortunately not. It requires fidelity until death—and if the vow is broken by either party, the one wearing the ring”—he gestures at Tony, completely unnecessarily—“will find that death comes quite quickly.”

“Fantastic.” Well, there goes plan A. He might have been able to talk Rhodey into a bros-for-life kind of bond, but he’s not about to make his best friend give up sex for him. And Pepper is clearly out—she’d probably say yes for Morgan’s sake, but he can’t ask her, not when she’s finally moved on with someone who’s actually able to be the partner she deserves. Someone who can be there for her at all times. Someone who doesn’t, for example, get themselves cursed by ancient marriage bands. He can’t do that to her; he can’t do it to any of his friends.

He could probably pay someone. There have to be people who’d be willing to go celibate for a hundred mil. But the idea instantly makes him anxious. The whole thing is a one-way ratchet; he’s not about to trust his life to the fidelity of the kind of person who would marry him for his money. Even if they meant well, one horny drunk night is all it would take.

He briefly wonders if the ring would be fooled by his marrying a robot, but he doesn’t voice the thought out loud. He’s had enough experience with magic to know the answer is probably no, and he doesn’t want to see Strange’s reaction to the suggestion.

Nope, there’s really only one solution here: he has to find another way to break the curse.

How hard can it be, really? If Doctor Smug can be the king of all magic, Tony should be able to figure out how to counter one measly curse without a problem. You know, once his head stops hurting.

\---

It turns out breaking a curse is harder than he thought. Hard enough that even after spending all his time in his private lab in the city, working on the project, he’s still exactly nowhere three days later. That’s when Peter waltzes in, bounds up behind him, and, leaning in so close his breath tickles his cheek, says, “Oh, what’s that a model of? Doesn’t look like a chemical. Or like…anything. Is it alien?”

Shit. It’s Thursday already. He’d been so lost in this nonsense he hadn’t thought about the fact that Peter was about to show up, wanting to know what he’s working on. Or about the fact that the kid would one hundred percent get down on one knee and propose right here and now if he tells him.

Tony’s not stupid. He knows Peter has a crush. Has had one since he was sixteen, at least. Tony had hoped going to college would cure him of it, but so far that hasn’t seemed to work. If anything, the opposite: it’s made him bolder, more willing to invade Tony’s space. Kind of like he’s doing right now, resting his chin on Tony’s shoulder as he observes the screen, continuing to speculate wildly about what he’s looking at.

And fine, yes, Tony has started to indulge that in the last year or two—kind of like he’s doing right now, letting his head tilt to the side, bumping against Peter’s in silent acknowledgement that he’s there. The Responsible Adult part of his brain knows it’s not fair; it keeps Peter too attached, prevents him from doing the age-appropriate exploration thing. But the sad and lonely and maybe a bit pathetic part craves the touch. Craves the attention, too. Likes that someone so young and attractive and painfully brilliant looks at him like he makes the world turn.

But there’s a line. Tony’s not quite sure where that line is—is, in fact, a little nervous he wouldn’t recognize it if he stumbled across it—but he damn well knows that irreversible magical marriage is several miles on the wrong side.

“Just a project I’m working on for David Copperdouche,” he says, swiping the image to the side and pulling away from Peter’s touch. “Analyzing some of the stuff I picked up for him.”

Since his near death experience, he’s done his best not to lie. Live a more authentic existence, all of that. But he _is_ analyzing something from his magical heist, so it’s not a lie, really.

“Oh, cool!” Peter’s gaze hasn’t left the now-blank screen, as if he’s hoping the model of the intricate magical molecule—if molecule is even the right word, which Tony isn’t sure it is—will suddenly reappear. “That’s awesome. Can I help?”

“Nope.” Tony grabs him by the shoulders, directing him to his desk. It would be nice to have a second set of eyes on the problem, but not when those eyes might put two and two together. “You can finish your suit upgrade. I’ve noticed your slingers have been catching lately.”

“You know, it’s kind of creepy how you still have F.R.I.D.A.Y. analyze all my YouTube footage,” Peter teases as he drops onto his stool. “Sort of obsessive.”

“And yet, here you are, week after week. Tends to make a guy think you don’t really mind.”

Peter ducks and blushes as he turns to his work, grinning to himself.

Yep, down on one knee in a second. He can’t know.

\---

Which is why it’s highly fucking inconvenient that the ring decides to start twisting the screws half an hour later. It’s the first time it’s acted up since Tony left Strange’s funhouse, and of course it happens while Peter is just a few desks down, hunched over a notebook, humming along to AC/DC as he works.

It starts with pressure behind his eyes, which he tries to chase away with a cup of coffee, hoping it’s just his body reminding him that occasionally he needs more than two hours of sleep in a night. But it doesn’t take long for the pressure to pulsate out into a drumming in his head and throbbing soreness up his jaw.

It hits him harder than last time; faster, too. Maybe a side effect of the magic drugs Strange has him on, or maybe it’s because he’s trying to fight it. The room tilts off its axis and he finds himself sprinting to the bathroom, making it just in time to empty his stomach into the toilet.

Once that’s over, he sprawls on the floor, groaning. This is supposed to get _worse_ over time? He drops his head forward, resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat like it’s freshmen year all over again. Maybe if he waits it out for a little while. Just a couple of minutes, he’ll probably be better. No one needs to know.

“Mr. Stark? Are you okay?”

Or not.

“Yeah, I’m fine, kid.”

Peter pushes the bathroom door open hesitantly, then gasps and instantly leaps to Tony’s side, hand rubbing his back. “You have a weird definition of fine.”

“Just, uh, just something I ate, I think.” So much for not lying. But some lies are for the greater good, or—no, that sounds wrong. But it’s something like that. White lies. Those are okay, right? He’ll sort it out later, when he can think straight.

“Yeah?” Peter sounds unconvinced. That can’t be good. “Are you sure it doesn’t have something to do with that thing glowing on your finger?”

Tony glances at his hand, currently hanging useless at his side, and realizes Peter is right: the ring, which had dimmed over the last few days, is back to full Day-Glo status. Huh. That’s going to be hard to explain. He forces himself to sit up, hitting flush as he does it. The world is still spinning; he tries to look at Peter but can’t quite get him to resolve in one place.

“Would you believe me if I said this is a hot new fashion statement I’m trying?”

Peter joins him on the floor, sitting close enough that their knees brush as he takes Tony’s hand, bringing the ring up close. The touch feels scratchy, amplified; a tingle runs up Tony’s arm as Peter twists and turns it, observing. “Is this what you’re working on?”

Well, no one ever accused the kid of not being smart. The world is too fuzzy for Tony to come up with a convincing cover. Or even an unconvincing one. He nods.

“And it’s why you’re currently on the ground moaning in pain?”

“I don’t moan. Some dignified groaning, at worst.” Tony blinks harder. There, Peter’s starting to clarify into view, deep frown and big worried eyes. He tugs his hand back, suddenly acutely aware of how much scrutiny he’s under. “But, yeah. It’s kind of a curse. Or at least that’s what Strange calls it. I don’t believe in curses.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” Which is true, for a certain value of true, but he can see Peter’s protest coming before he even gets his mouth open. “Please don’t do the ‘I’m not a kid anymore, Mr. Stark’ speech. My head hurts too much to sit through that again.”

Peter pouts. There is no other word to describe the thing his face is doing: lower lip sticking out, nose scrunched. It should not be as cute as it is. “Fine. But, I’m not, for the record.”

Tony props his elbow on his knee, leaning into his hand and closing his eyes. He can’t tell if that makes the world spin more or less. Actually, yes, he decides after a moment, he can. It’s more. He opens his eyes to find Peter looking at him with a mixture of concern and annoyance. “Yeah, well. If it makes you feel any better, lying to my closest friends about my well-being is a time-honored Tony Stark tradition. It’s not reserved for kids.”

“You know, that does make me feel better.” Peter stands, grinning and extending his hand. Apparently he’s decided they’ve reached the end of the sitting-on-the-bathroom-floor portion of the afternoon. “So, what’re we going to do about it?”

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything.” Tony does take his hand though. “ _I_ am going to figure out how to break it.”

“Doesn’t Doctor Strange know?” Peter asks, pulling him to his feet with a light tug and slipping his arm around his waist without even bothering to ask.

See? Forward. Though it’s not indulgence so much as a completely inability to take a single step without feeling like he’s going to crumple to the ground that makes Tony lean into the hold, side pressing into side as they navigate out of the bathroom.

“The Illusionist knows one way but it’s…complicated.” There, also not a lie. Strange’s solution _is_ complicated. “I figure it’s nothing a little applied brainpower can’t fix.”

Peter seems to accept this explanation, or at least doesn’t pry further for the moment. He drops Tony at the lab couch, helpfully arranging the pillows to make space for him to lie down.

“Closest friends, huh?” he says once Tony is settled. Shit, of course he caught that. He looks so smug about it, too. Observant little asshole.

Tony waves him away. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

\---

The weekend passes without any more attacks. Plus, Tony thinks he might actually be getting somewhere with his analysis of the compounds that make up the ring. All in all, he’s feeling good by the time Monday rolls around.

And then Peter shows up. Just walks right in, drops a pile of books on Tony’s desk, and says, “So, I’ve been doing some reading.”

Tony glances at the stack, which appears to be made up of woo-woo bullshit that has nothing to do with fixing his suit, or developing new web fluid, or that crazy engineering project, the Spider-Mobile. No, these are on an entirely different topic: _The Science of Occultism_. _Curses_. _Is Magic Real?_

He very deliberately raises his eyebrows, fixing Peter with a look that he hopes conveys that he sees what he’s done, and he does not approve. “Is it Thursday already? Because I seem to be under the impression it’s still Monday.”

“You said I could drop by anytime I want!” Peter protests, which is true. And it’s not like he hasn’t taken Tony up on the offer before. Normally it’s a pleasant surprise to find himself not working alone. But normally Peter isn’t prying into things Tony really wants him to stay away from.

“I also said I was working this project on my own.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I don’t want you wasting your brain on this drivel, kid.” Tony points at the books disdainfully. “I thought you were taking like ten classes this semester, when did you even find the time?”

“Six, and they’re easy.” Peter picks up one of the books, opening it to a page that’s marked with a Post-It. “I know most of the stuff in these is dumb, but I really think there’s some possible insights. I mean, look at what this says about—”

“Pete, I said _no_ ,” Tony snaps, grabbing the book away. In response, Peter breaks out his wounded puppy look, which is an unfair move. Seriously, that thing should be declared illegal. Tony’s stomach twists with guilt. “Sorry. It’s just—I’ve got this one, kid. It’s something I need to deal with on my own. But hey, it’s almost lunchtime.” He claps Peter on the shoulder in what he hopes comes across as a reassuring, sorry-I-yelled-at-you gesture. “Feel free to stick around. Do some of that easy homework. Food’s on me.”

Peter looks slightly mollified. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “But seriously, check out those books. I swear I’m not crazy, some of them might be helpful.”

\---

As they wait for sushi to arrive Tony picks up one of the books, skimming the pages Peter marked. It…might actually be useful. Of course it might. Far be it from Peter to be anything other than extraordinarily helpful. Tony rubs his temple. This is giving him a headache.

Or—wait. He glances at the ring; it’s glowing slightly. _That’s_ giving him a headache. Great. It’s like the thing is purposefully picking the most inconvenient times to act up. At least the pain is mild this time, just a low-level discomfort, like someone gently tapping his skull with a hammer. He can push through.

Fifteen minutes later, it is clear he cannot push through. The gentle tapping has become a full-on assault; it feels like his brain is trying to fight its way out of the confines of his head. Lights hurt. The buzz of machinery hurts. The stool he’s sitting on hurts. _Everything_ hurts. He stumbles over to the couch in a blind panic, throwing himself onto it with a gasp and shutting his eyes. It would be great if he could shut his ears, too.

“Sir?” Oh, right. He’d momentarily forgotten Peter was even in the room, not to mention that he’s supposed to be downplaying the curse situation. “Mr. Stark!”

The couch sinks beside him and a soft hand finds his, squeezing tight. That feels good. Grounding. He squeezes back like it’s a lifeline.

They sit like that for several long minutes, Tony trying very hard not to make any sounds that reveal how much this sucks, Peter, apparently content to let him take the lead, staying silent, holding his hand tight. The moment is interrupted by F.R.I.D.A.Y. announcing the delivery man is outside. Tony can’t help the moan—fine, yes, it’s a moan—that escapes his throat as her voice slams through his head like a megaphone next to his ear.

“I’ll get it,” Peter promises. He caresses Tony’s cheek for the briefest moment before standing. “Don’t go anywhere.”

As if he possibly could. Though by the time Peter returns, loaded down with several brown paper bags, the headache has simmered to a dull throb. Tony feels better enough to stand, though putting raw fish in his mouth seems like a stretch. But that doesn’t stop him from dragging himself over to the desk where Peter has placed the food; he has to at least attempt to act normal. He even helps unpack the meal, if by helping unpack the meal you mean taking the top off exactly one container of sushi and then immediately dropping it because his hands are shaking too much to keep a grip on the plastic.

“I got it, Mr. Stark, I got it!” Peter insists, grabbing Tony’s hands and pulling them away from the food. “Please don’t worry about it.”

Tony crumples onto a stool and then, because that’s not quite enough to stop the shooting pain that runs through him, collapses forward onto the desk with a sigh, head resting in his arms. So much for normal. “I’m not going to be able to get you to leave me alone about this, am I?”

“Nope,” Peter agrees cheerily, popping a piece of sushi into his mouth with a smirk, looking for all the world like he’s delighted about this turn of events. Well, at least someone’s getting something out of Tony’s misery. “My classes are over by three on Wednesday, so I can come back then. If you send me the files you were working on I can look them over before?”

“You’re impossible,” Tony grumbles, but he tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to send the files. He doesn’t have the energy to fight this losing battle, and there’s nothing in there that makes it clear what exactly the curse _is_ , so it’s fine. And if it’s not fine, that’s a problem for future Tony to deal with. Hopefully future Tony will be in less pain.

\---

They make some headway over the new few weeks, Peter popping in as often as possible, Tony working tirelessly, stopping only when Morgan comes over or the curse flares up. There’s definitely rhyme and reason to the internal structure of the actual ring, and they get that mapped out, which feels like progress. The sticking point is how it connects to Tony.

“Kind of a big sticking point,” he notes as he pours over his most recent full-body scan. He’s been having F.R.I. run one every few days, plus every time he has what he’s come to think of as an attack. There’s definitely elevated levels of an unknown particle in his bloodstream. It bursts to life during the attacks, glaring gold on the scans, unlike anything he’s ever seen. But how a ring on his finger got particles into his body, and what exactly it means when they put on a light show in his veins is still anyone’s guess.

“We’ll figure it out.” Peter places his hand on the back of Tony’s neck, giving him an encouraging squeeze before digging his fingers into the tight knots there, smoothing the muscles. His touch is firm and confident, sure Tony won’t shrug him away. And he’s right. He shouldn’t be, but Tony doesn’t have it in him to stop something that feels that good. Not when the only thing he feels most of the time anymore is bad, even when he isn’t actively collapsing in agony. For the last week, his whole body has been weak and drained and just a little sour, nausea clinging to him. Peter’s touch helps. Tony lets his head drop forward, relishing it.

“You don’t have to keep coming so often,” he forces himself to say. It’s a little ritual they’ve started going through, Tony trying to keep up the pretense of Responsible Adult. As if he doesn’t appreciate Peter’s presence even more now than ever. As if he wouldn’t be devastated if he said, _Yep, you’re right, back to Thursdays it is._ “You can’t tell me this isn’t messing with your schoolwork.”

“It’s not! My classes really are easy.”

“Your social life, then.”

Peter slips his arm around Tony’s neck, pulling him into a half-hug from behind. Slightly awkward, but mostly heaven, the warmth of his body radiating to Tony’s core. “I don’t need a social life, I have you.”

Yep: Down. On. One. Knee. And a very irresponsible part of Tony’s brain wonders: would that be so bad?

\---

That night, he drinks half a bottle of vodka just to remind himself that yes, yes it would be so bad. Not for him, maybe, but he’s not the one he’s worried about.

\---

After another few days they decide they really aren’t making any progress on how the ring works, so they start looking into methods of breaking curses instead. Maybe they can reverse engineer something.

“Isn’t this the kind of thing you should ask Doctor Strange about?” Peter asks as he finishes reading, out loud, a passage from one of the magic books. They’ve been talking through it, trying to separate the plausibly real from the total crap. He’s reading out loud because Tony is currently on the ground, blanket over his face to block out the light. Today the curse has decided to light everything on fire, which is a fun new development; the cold cement is the only thing that makes him feel any better.

Peter is on the ground with him, sitting by his head, absent-mindedly stroking his fingers through his hair as he reads. Which is—well. Absolute proof that letting him help is a giant mistake and also that Tony is a weak, weak man who needs to get his shit together.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Mmm?” He lost track of the conversation there somewhere.

“Curses. Doctor Strange.”

Oh, right. “No thank you.”

“I know you don’t like him, but—”

“ _You_ try telling that arrogant asshole we need his help.” Then, realizing that Peter might actually take him up on that suggestion and there’s about a five hundred percent chance Strange would spill the beans just for the opportunity to laugh about it, he amends, “Sorry, fine, you’re right. I’ll go see Penn & Teller tonight.”

\---

Strange does not seem surprised when Tony shows up at his door. In fact, he already has a pile of books waiting for him.

“It’s not going to work, you know,” he says as he hands them over. There’s a slight smile in his eyes, even as he tries to keep up the otherworldly detachment. 

“People said that about arc reactor technology and time travel, and look at me now.” Tony turns to leave, but then decides against it. As long as he’s here, he might as well ask. “So, uh, the whole pain thing. Does it come at random intervals, or what’s the deal there?”

“I don’t know; I don’t have a manual for the thing.” Strange sounds contemptuous, but under the cool exterior there’s a flicker of curiosity. “Why, have you noticed a pattern?”

Tony shrugs. He’s not sure if he has or if it’s in his head. “Just wondering. I thought you were Mr. All-Seeing, All-Knowing.”

“You’re the one who thinks you can outsmart the powerful ancient object,” Strange tells him with a dismissive wave. “You figure it out.”

\---

So along with keeping track of their experiments, Tony starts keeping track of when, and for how long, each new burst of misery comes. After a week he’s sure: it’s worse when Peter’s around.

Man, he does not want to know what the ring trying to tell him with that.

“I already have a guilty conscience,” he informs it, raising his hand to eye level. “You don’t need to make it worse.”

The damn thing has the audacity not to respond.

He decides drowning his sorrows is a better option than continuing a conversation with the inanimate object on his hand. He’d been doing pretty well keeping the drinking under control before this shit started, too. Seriously, divorce? No problem. But combine an ancient marriage curse with a teenager who’s been showing up all the time, boundaries disintegrating by the day, and it turns out you get his breaking point.

He takes a shot, and then keeps taking them until he can’t remember what it feels like to have Peter’s hands running through his hair. 

\---

The next morning, he feels like death. A pounding that can’t even be called a headache as much as a whole-body ache runs down his neck and across his shoulders. But it’s not bad enough to stop him from making it to the lab, so he chalks it up to a hangover right until the moment he passes out, sliding from his stool to the floor as the world disappears into a haze.

\---

He’s in a bed. How did he get in a bed? He blinks the world into focus, ignoring the pinching pain at his temple, and realizes he’s in the apartment that lives above his lab. The one that theoretically exists for the occasional all-nighter but that has, in reality, become his home over the last few weeks. Why drag himself back uptown to his actual apartment when everything he needs is right here?

Speaking of here, how did he get here? He’s still in his clothes from earlier, but his shoes have been pulled off, he’s under a blanket—

And something smells like bacon. He definitely does not keep bacon in this apartment. He barely keeps food in this apartment.

He has a feeling he knows where this is going. That feeling is confirmed when he stumbles into the open-plan living space and spots Peter in the kitchen, hovering over the stove.

“I’m confused,” Tony says, by way of breaking the ice. His voice is unexpectedly hoarse, throat sticky. “Is it morning? I feel like it was already the afternoon.”

Peter turns around, depositing the bacon onto a plate in the same motion, grin lighting up his face. “Perfect timing! No, it’s not morning, but you were asleep for so long, breakfast felt right. Also, you have an awesome butcher shop two blocks down. Did you know that?”

Tony did not know that. Tony also has nothing to do with that information, so he files it away as useless and makes his way—slowly, because his head is still screaming—to the kitchen table, where he quickly slips into a chair. Standing isn’t his favorite thing right now. “Why are you cooking me anything?”

“Did you hear the part where you passed out? Which, gotta say, Mr. Stark, not a super fun thing to find. I was really worried. I almost called an ambulance but then F.R.I.D.A.Y. said you were okay, just more of the curse, so I figured there wasn’t really anything a doctor could do. _Then_ I thought maybe I should call Doctor Strange, but I know you really hate him and F.R.I.D.A.Y. said you were stable so I just kind of brought you up here and tried to make you comfortable. I hope that was right? I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to handle this, honestly, I didn’t want to make you mad but I also didn’t want you to, like, _die_.”

Peter ends this outburst by slamming a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Tony and slumping into the seat next to him. He’s no longer grinning. In fact, there’s a faint glean of tears in his eyes.

Because he’s worried. Of course he’s worried. Great. Tony’s doing such a fantastic job keeping the stress off him. Really a-plus work. Absolutely killing it.

“I’m not going to die,” he assures him, reaching across the table to take his hand. Peter frowns, looking doubtful. “No seriously, kid, look at me. You did the right thing today, and I _promise_ I’m not going to die.”

Peter weaves their fingers together. “How do you know?”

“Because the wizard told me. End up in constant, excruciating pain? Maybe. But die? Nah. So we’re all good here, nothing to worry about.”

“Oh yeah, sounds totally fine then,” Peter agrees with a quiet laugh. After a thoughtful pause, he adds, “So, are you going to tell me what this curse is actually about?”

Tony pulls his hand away, startled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid, Mr. Stark,” Peter tells him, looking a little insulted. “Obviously you know some stuff, like that it won’t kill you—which would have been great to know two hours ago, by the way. Plus, you said Strange knows how to break it. Basic logic says I’d be more helpful if I had all the information you have, but you haven’t told me. I’ve been trying not to bug you about it because I figured there must be a reason you weren’t telling me everything, but it kind of feels like we’ve reached the point where maybe that reason isn’t good enough anymore? Because I literally found you passed out on the floor today, and that’s not cool.”

Tony shoves some of the bacon into his mouth, to give himself an excuse not to answer immediately. It’s great, crisp without being burnt. He follows it up with a forkful of eggs, fluffy scrambled perfection, spiced up with a dash of cheese. Peter must’ve bought that, too. “This is really good. Did I know you can cook? I feel like that’s not a fact I knew about you.”

“You never asked.” Peter steals a slice of bacon for himself. “Plus, I’m not sure if bacon and scrambled eggs qualifies as proof of cooking ability. Also, you’re changing the subject.”

Yep. That was exactly what he was trying to do. “Who let you be so smart and observant? It’s annoying. An annoying quality.”

“I learned from the master.” Suddenly Peter’s face sets, amused smile disappearing. “Seriously, Mr. Stark. Will you please just tell me what’s going on? I’m really scared.” His voice breaks on _scared_. Just a slight tremor, but it’s basically torture. Honestly. Give Tony the shrapnel in his heart back, it would hurt less.

Would it really be so bad if he told him? But he can see how that scene plays out, and it hasn’t magically gotten better since he first decided to keep the curse a secret. He doesn’t want to break the kid’s heart with a rejection he won’t understand. That he’ll take as a rejection _of_ him, not _for_ him.

And a little, maybe, he’s scared of himself. Scared he won’t be able to stand firm with a no. He’s so fucking tired. All the time. There’s a pinch in his back like a nerve has moved to the wrong place. Lights are constantly too much, and it’s all even worse after whatever happened this morning. An offer of relief? When that offer takes the form of a lifetime with Peter Parker?

He’s not sure he’s strong enough to say no to that. Not right now.

“Pete, I can’t tell you. I just—believe me when I say I really can’t.”

Peter nods, looking away, jaw tense, as if he’s clenching his teeth together. Maybe trying not to cry. “Okay. Fine. I get it, you don’t trust me.”

“No. It’s not—kid, look at me.” He doesn’t; actually twists his face away further, defiant. Tony grabs his hand and, when that doesn’t seem to have any effect, resorts to running his knuckles along his cheek. Peter doesn’t look back, but he does press his eyelids together, exhaling sharply. “Pete, at this point there is no one in the world I trust more than you, except maybe Rhodey, and he has a several decade head start. And I haven’t told him what’s going on, either, for what it’s worth.”

Peter slits his eyes back open, glancing at Tony skeptically. “Really?”

“Really. This is just…something I have to deal with on my own. It’s not you it’s me, all that cliché stuff.”

To prove he means it he grabs Peter’s chair and pulls it closer, folding him into his arms, resting his face against his hair. He breathes in the scent of bacon and shampoo, clutches at the fabric of his t-shirt, soft from too many times through the wash. Peter nuzzles against his cheek, nose rubbing into his beard in a way that tickles and makes his chest tighten with a longing he’s not quite willing to put a name to.

“I’m sorry I’m putting you through this,” Tony whispers, leaning back to look Peter directly in the eyes, moving his hands to the sides of his face. “You can tap out whenever you want. You don’t owe me anything.”

Peter shakes his head, grabbing Tony’s hands, lowering them—but not letting go. “I owe you everything, and I’d do it even if I didn’t. Ready to get back to work?”

\---

After that, the concept of boundaries is a lost cause. Tony wishes he could say he tried to keep them up, but it would be a lie.

In his defense, the curse hangs heavy around him, its effects bleeding over between attacks with increasing strength. Strange didn’t really get it right when he described it. After the first few weeks the symptoms have become less independent bursts of pain and more consistent, drawn-out torture with occasional bouts of hot irons poking his brain, just to mix things up.

And so, yes, screw it. He’s stopped trying to pretend he minds that Peter is showing up every day after his classes—and sometimes skipping them altogether (“Really, Mr. Stark, I don’t need to go to o-chem lecture. I already know it all, and the stuff we’re doing here is _way_ more interesting”). And he doesn’t even raise an eyebrow when Peter touches him. All the time. Not just the quick, casual brushes of flirtation, but lingering caresses, comfort in contact form. Neck massages and fingers scrubbing through hair; hips bumping, head resting on his shoulder.

He doesn’t remember saying it was okay, but he also can’t bring himself to tell Peter to stop. Those moments of contact are the only time he feels anything resembling relief.

Today, Peter deposits his backpack—always full of new books and calculations and potato chips Tony says he’s not going to eat and then wolfs down because mealtimes have become an even vaguer concept than usual these days—by his desk and then immediately bounces over. He wraps his arms around Tony from behind, tightening until the hug is just this side of uncomfortable, nose smashing into his back, pressing into the thin fabric of his tank top.

“How’re you today, Mr. Stark?” he asks. Tony can feel his lips moving, a realization that sends a scattering of goosebumps down his arm.

He finds his hand, splayed on his chest, and holds it. He doesn’t even have the energy to tell himself he shouldn’t. “Okay.” _Better now that you’re here_ , he doesn’t add. See? He still has some self-restraint. “I think I’ve figured out how to recreate the serum you found. The one from India.”

He tosses his latest work onto the screen. Peter doesn’t let go of him, just props his chin on his shoulder so he can see.

Yeah, that line Tony was worried about? This is over it. He _knows_ this is over it. But it also feels like he can breathe for the first time since Peter left yesterday evening. Not that there aren’t trade-offs beyond the moral compromise: his head is starting to thud a little harder, the way it tends to when Peter’s around.

In fact, it’s getting difficult to think straight. Fortunately, Peter picks up the slack, absorbing Tony’s work and making suggestions. He tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to tweak calculations with the ease of someone who feels like he has the right to take over simply because he has an idea.

Tony couldn’t tell you exactly when that happened. Oh, he knows when he gave F.R.I. instructions to respond to Peter’s commands, but that was ages ago. Peter had spent months not ever using the privilege; until a few weeks ago he’d seemed nervous asking for her help even on his personal projects. This—treating not just his little desk but the whole lab, even Tony’s work, like it’s his own? Brand new.

The really scary part is Tony doesn’t mind at all.

He laces their fingers together, leans back into Peter’s arms, and watches him work.

\---

It turns out magic can be conquered by science after all.

Tony knows this because he’s taken a few scraps of a so-called spell from a bad translation of a centuries-old text and transformed it into solid bronze liquid. Well, he and Peter, really. Peter gets a lot of credit. But Peter’s not here right now, and Tony’s the one who actually made the magic—ha—happen, so he’s going to give himself the pat on the back. He needs the win.

The best part is, F.R.I.A.D.Y. tells him she’s ninety-eight percent certain it’s not poison. Of course—as she adds in a tone that boarders on disapproving—she cannot tell him exactly what it’s effects _are_. But the ancient text says it’s for “stripping away unwanted weight,” which sounds very promising. This curse is nothing if not a weight. Heck, the ring is _literally_ an unwanted weight, an irritating, burning reminder of what he’s done. 

“What do you think?” Tony asks, pouring a shot-glass worth of the stuff. “Down the hatch?”

“I think that is ill-advised, sir. Mr. Parker will be here in fifteen minutes. Perhaps it would be best to wait until he arrives?”

The clear undertone is that perhaps it would be best to wait longer than that, too. Which is probably right. It’s definitely right. But she said it isn’t going to kill him, and beyond that it’s hard to imagine how things could get much worse. Besides, chances are first time around he didn’t manage to make something that actually has any effect. It’ll probably need tweaks.

“To bad ideas!” he declares, toasting the empty room.

If he didn’t know better, he would swear he hears F.R.I.D.A.Y. sigh as he knocks the liquid back.

\---

It was a bad idea. A really monumentally stupid idea. Who let him _drink a magic potion_?

He blames the overwhelming headaches. And, okay, yes, maybe he’d already been a little drunk. That may have factored in. But still, somebody should have stopped him. Who? Unclear. To be fair, that is unclear. Probably himself, and he obviously can’t be trusted.

So now here he is, entire body feeling like it’s about to float away, brain gone soft as mush. It’s like being high, if being high penetrated all the way down through your ribs, grabbing at something deep behind your heart. On the plus side, he’s not in pain anymore. Or—maybe he is, but it’s been transformed into background noise.

 _Strip the weight away_. Maybe this is a mystical drug. Old-school shaman medical marijuana. The good news is if he’s going to start seeing pink elephants or white rabbits that effect hasn’t kicked in yet.

Then Peter walks in and Tony suddenly has a much clearer sense of what he’s done to himself, because the first thing out of his mouth is: “Mr. Parker! My favorite human being, it is incredible to see you. Highlight of my day. But I have a confession: I’ve done something really stupid.”

He hadn’t meant to say any of those words. And as Peter comes closer, eyebrows knitting, it takes everything in Tony’s power not to add something about how it’s sweet that he’s concerned, really, the sweetest thing, so sweet it makes Tony want to cry sometimes. Or maybe something about how it’s cute the way his forehead wrinkles when he’s worried, stress bunching up his muscles, but also how he hates seeing that expression, because it means Peter’s unhappy, and that’s the opposite of what Tony wants.

Or maybe this: he knows right now the thing putting that expression there is him, and he hates that more than anything.

He manages not to say any of it, but it’s a close call. Inhibitions, gone. Which is not good. Very not good. Very bad. He jerks up, ready to run out of the room, but Peter is already on him, hands at his shoulders, holding him in place. “Mr. Stark, what’s wrong?”

“I made the serum. The India thing. And then I drank the serum. Because I am a self-destructive moron. Turns out it doesn’t break this stupid curse, but it does make me extra honest. Which is why I’m going to go now, if you would leave off the super-grip for a second.”

That was also a whole lot of stuff he didn’t intend to say. God damn it. Idiot. _Idiot_.

“You drank the magic serum we just made? Even though we have no idea what it does?” Peter looks like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, eyes darting over Tony’s face as if looking for signs of a lie, or maybe trying to assess if he’s drunk.

“Yeah, kid, I’m a much bigger idiot than you give me credit for. Welcome to the club of people who know that. It consists of every other person who has ever met me, and now you.” He bops Peter on the nose as he says _you_ , a ridiculous, affectionate gesture he does not remember telling his hand to do. Inhibitions being gone apparently extends beyond words. Extra great. “Congratulations on catching up to what the rest of the world realized in the ‘90s.”

Peter tilts his head, observing him like he’s a puzzle. “You must be really desperate to break this curse.”

“You have no idea. Now, will you please let me go?”

“This serum is making you tell the truth?”

“Yes.” Oh, no. He does not like the expression Peter gets at that, eyes narrowing the way they do when he’s calculating. “Kid, don’t you dare—”

In a flash it’s too late: Peter grabs his left wrist, thrusts it at the table, and secures it in place with the web-slingers he never takes off.

Tony yanks at the web, but it’s not going anywhere, unpleasantly sticky and unbreakably strong. “Are you fucking kidding me, Pete?”

At least Peter looks guilty as he says, “Sorry, Mr. Stark, but I really need to know. What aren’t you telling me about this curse?”

Tony stares at the ceiling, willing anything other than the truth to come out of his mouth. But apparently the serum doesn’t tolerate silence; a prickling anxiety crawls up his neck, wraps itself around his brain, slides down his throat until he feels likes he might choke from it. It takes less than thirty seconds until he’s explaining everything: the ancient origins, how it can be broken, the dangerous depths of the vows that must be taken.

“That’s it?” Peter asks when he’s done. “That’s all it takes? Marrying someone?”

“I’m not sure I’d describe marriage that casually, kiddo. Most people consider it kind of a big deal, especially when divorce is a death sentence.”

“Fine, sure, it’s not nothing, but I thought we were going to be talking about human sacrifice or something super messed up like that.” Peter runs a hand along Tony’s bound arm up to his shoulder, then traces down to his chest, palm stopping over his heart. “You’re _Tony Stark_. You must have a million people willing to marry you.”

“The list gets a lot shorter when you consider that I need to trust them not to ever cheat on me,” Tony points out. “The ring isn’t into consensual non-monogamy, which is rather old fashioned of it if you ask me, but then, it is pretty old. I’m not big on putting my life in the hands of people I don’t trust.”

“Okay, that makes sense.” Peter’s hand makes its way to Tony’s hip. His voice goes quiet as he adds, “But there must be someone you trust who would be willing to do it.”

“I’m not putting that on someone else.” Tony looks Peter in the eyes, hopes in a hopeless way that he can get his point across without being forced to make it specific. “I’ve thought about this a lot. I’ve been over all the possibilities. It’s too much to ask of someone I care about. I think Rhodey, or Pep, heck even Happy, would do it, but I just can’t—”

“What about me?” It’s so soft, so hopeful, Tony feels something in him crack, a sharp stab of knowledge that he’s failed. Failed at avoiding hurting Peter. Again. This whole thing, just one failure after another.

“I especially can’t ask you, kid.”

“You don’t have to ask, Mr. Stark.” Peter’s second hand mirrors his first, landing at Tony’s other hip. His thumb rubs a low circle, brushing against the edge of his pants, and Tony has to grip the table to keep from making a noise that would not help the situation at all. “I’m offering.”

“No, no way.” The anxious tingle is back, tugging deep at the part of him that wants to say, _Well, actually, now that you mention it._ He forces the words down, ignoring how his heart starts hammering as they attempt to work back up, like something physical trying to claw its way out. “ _Not happening_ ,” he barks, more harshly than he intended.

Peter recoils, insult and rejection written clear across his face. “You’d really rather die than marry me?”

“I told you, I’m not going to die—”

“Live in excruciating pain then, whatever, same difference. Seriously, am I that bad?”

Tony tugs uselessly at the web sticking him to the desk. This is why he should wear the nanobot casing at all times. _All_ times. If he had his gauntlet, he could break free. It’s not paranoia if they really are after you. Even if the “they” in this particular situation is Peter Parker, with his big eyes and brokenhearted expression and this stupid serum and _fuck_ , he’s not going to be able to keep himself from talking much longer, the words are crawling up his throat and—

“I’d rather die than hurt you,” he gasps. Well, there. At least he avoided saying the thing he is really, really trying very desperately not to say. Peter flushes, but his expression goes from hurt to confused.

“Mr. Stark, I—” His hands move from Tony’s hips to his back, palms spreading wide, pulling him closer. “You know I’d really be okay with marrying you, right? More than okay. Like...” He stops, bites his lip as if he’s decided he’s not sure he wants to finish the thought. “I just mean—it wouldn’t be hurting me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, kid.” Okay. This is okay. Focusing on why this can’t possibly happen is a path Tony is comfortable going down, relatively speaking. “You think you’d be okay with it now because you’re a teenager with a crush—don’t look so surprised, Pete, I’m not blind—but trust me, being permanently tied to Tony Stark is not a pleasant life path. I’m a mess, I’m middle-aged, I’m a disaster who’s broken every relationship I’ve ever touched. You’re young and amazing and deserve a chance to find someone as incredible as you are. Or at least as close to it as they come, because I don’t think there actually is anyone as incredible as you.”

Fuck. He was doing okay until that last part. Still, all things considered, could’ve been worse.

Peter exhales, frustrated, determined in a way that Tony does _not_ like. Or does like. Likes too much, maybe.

“I can think of someone as incredible as me,” he says, low. Then, to Tony’s absolute horror, he places a hand on his face, scooping his other arm all the way around his waist until they’re pressed together, body to body. Tony squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling deeply. He’s not sure if it’s the spell or just Peter’s proximity, but there’s no way for him to hide exactly how much that touch affects him. “It’s really not just a crush, sir. Also, for the record, I’m twenty.”

“Peter—” He slams his mouth shut. Even that one word, thick with longing, gave too much away.

“Mr. Stark, if you tell me you actually don’t want to marry me, I’ll walk away right now.” Peter’s voice has disappeared into a whisper. “Redouble my efforts to figure out how to fix this thing, set up a matchmaking program to find you the perfect spouse, whatever you want, whatever I can do to help. But if you’re avoiding it just because you think it’s better for me—”

Tony opens his eyes. “It _is_ better for you,” he insists, because that’s the truth.

“But leaving my well-being out of it, would you want to? Marry me?”

Tony can feel the word _yes_ fighting its way to his mouth, but he manages to gasp out, “Peter, I _can’t_ ,” instead.

“Yeah, I get that that’s your opinion.” Peter’s hand slips from his cheek to his neck, caressing but firm. Too fucking confident, now. “But do you _want_ to?”

“Fuck,” Tony bites out, and then, inevitably, uncontrollably: “Yes.” Once he says it, the words he’s been trying to hold back start tumbling out of him, an unstoppable car wreck. “Yes, yes of course I _want_ to marry you, Peter Parker. I’d want to marry you even if I didn’t need to marry someone because some royals a millennium ago couldn’t figure out how else to keep their heirs in line. You’re brilliant and gorgeous and brave, and sometimes, when you’re being a snarky little asshole, I think you might be the one person in the whole world who truly gets me. I’d be lucky to spend my life with you.” He manages to catch a breath, but can’t help adding, “The way you’ve been behaving recently hasn’t exactly made me want you less, by the way.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter’s hand slips under Tony’s shirt, palm burning against his back “How exactly have I been behaving, Mr. Stark?”

God, is the kid _teasing_ him right now?

He brought this on himself. His fault. Kick boundaries to the wayside, you end up with someone who has too good an idea of exactly where they stand.

He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, remembering how it felt to have Peter’s hands in his hair. Eggs in the afternoon. Reading to him through the bone rattling headaches. The help in the lab, the brainstorming. “Wonderfully. Perfectly. God, unbelievably. You make it so easy to imagine what a life with you would be like.” 

“So let’s do it.” He can hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “Let’s have that life. It’s good, right? It’d be fun. Like the last few weeks, without you being sick all the time.”

“It’s not that easy—”

“It doesn’t have to be that hard, either.”

And then, because he is absolutely impossible, Peter kisses him, warm and soft and _right_ , right in a way Tony feels down in his gut. In a way that pulls a desperate moan out of him. He dives into the kiss head-first, free hand scrambling to grab Peter’s neck, hungry for him, so hungry it lights up his body, anxious fluttering of the serum gone. As if it’s decided this is a good thing, as if it’s telling him he’s gotten to some core truth and made the right move and—

Wait. Screw that. What the hell does a potion know, anyway?

He breaks the kiss. “That doesn’t change anything I said.”

“No offense, but you’re being an idiot, Mr. Stark.” Peter steals another kiss, and Tony can’t stop himself from returning it. “I adore you. I’m pretty positive the feeling is somewhat mutual. And yeah, if there weren’t a curse I wouldn’t be saying let’s get married right this second but there _is_ , so we _should_. We can work out the details after.”

He smiles with the confidence of someone who is too young to realize how absurd that sounds.

“The ‘details’? Pete, you’re in college, I’m old and divorced. I have a daughter!”

“Okay, so? We don’t have to live together right away. We don’t even have to tell anyone. We can just go on living our lives except, you know, married.” Catching the disbelief Tony is doing his best to project with every inch of his face, Peter adds, “Yeah, it’s a little weird, I get that. But you can’t tell me this wouldn’t be better for Morgan than having her dad permanently out of commission from pain.”

Of course he’s smart enough to play that particular card. It’s not like the worry hasn’t crossed Tony’s mind. But he’s not out of commission yet. “Let me remind you, smartass, my plan here isn’t to remain in pain, it’s to break the damn thing myself, no marriage necessary.”

“Because that’s going so well.” Peter’s sarcasm is thick, mocking. Tony is rarely on the receiving end of this part of his personality, and he can’t say he’s a fan. “We’re making excellent progress. It’s really great that our best lead yet turned out to be a truth serum instead of anything helpful.”

“Pete, you _don’t get it_.” Tony can hear the strain in his voice. It’s gone rough from trying to hold back a desperate _yes_ , from tears and frustration and want and fear, from his resolve crumbling down to almost nothing. “We wouldn’t be able to just live our lives like nothing happened. You’d be giving up this huge thing and you’re too young to understand. Never sleeping with anyone else—that’s big, Peter. That’s too big.”

“It’s really not.” Another kiss, this one deep, luxurious. Seductive, even, in a sloppy way. “I don’t want to sleep with other people, Mr. Stark. I’ve tried sleeping with other people, it sucks.”

“I…did not realize that.” Of course he has. What did he think, someone as attractive as Peter made it through several years of college without ever getting laid? That he’d been saving himself? That he’d been saving himself for Tony? (Yes, that’s what he’d thought, and what does it say about him that he’s a little disappointed it isn’t true?)

“Jealous?”

The serum is still there, itching at the back of his throat. “A little.”

Peter’s grin goes smug; it’s the look he gets when he knows he’s won a point. “Don’t be. It sucked because they weren’t you. I always wanted them to be you.”

And isn’t that, right there, the heart of the problem? He’s so close, and yet doesn’t get it at all. “Peter, you adore me, I understand that. You’ve always adored me, and that means you can’t see that I don’t deserve it. I will ruin your life, and I can’t do that. It would destroy me.”

Whether it’s the serum or his own will or some dangerous, toxic blend, he can’t stop himself from leaning in for another kiss, already missing the taste of Peter’s lips. It feels so good, he almost gets lost in it completely. Almost relents to the promise of it. With a growl, he tears himself away before he forgets his point. He has to make his point. “That’s what this really comes down to, kid: I love you too much to marry you.”

The word hangs in the air, startling both of them into stillness: _love_.

He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t formed the thought in that bold, solid term before it came out of him. But he knows it’s true, not because the magic demands it must be, but because it feels right. Saying he loves Peter feels right. Damn it, when did that happen? How did he let that happen?

Peter is staring at him with an expression of absolute amazement. Despite all his confidence, he clearly hadn’t been ready for that. How could he be, when Tony wasn’t? For a long moment he gapes, and then, cautiously, as if expecting someone to tell him he didn’t hear what he just heard, he repeats, “You love me? Like—you’re in love with me?”

“Yeah, Peter, what do you think we’ve been talking about this whole time?” Fuck this serum. Just really, fuck it. Fuck himself for taking it. Fuck this entire situation. “Did you miss the part where I said I’d marry you in a heartbeat if it were just about me? I’m not big on marrying people I’m not in love with.”

Out of nowhere Peter drops to one knee, grasping Tony’s free hand. He looks up at him with tears in his eyes and a determined set to his jaw. It’s one of the most frightening things Tony has ever seen: the look of someone who is not going to give up, no matter what. “I love you too. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

“Peter—”

“No, shut up. Let me talk.” Wow. Peter has definitely never had the guts to tell him to shut up before; his face instantly flushes bright red, but he doesn’t break that determined eye contact. Tony is too stunned to do anything but nod, encouraging him to go on. “I’m not going to ask you to marry me again right now, because I can tell you’re just going to keep saying no and it’s getting embarrassing. And I promise I’ll keep helping you try to break the curse, because that’s what you want. But I’m also going to work on changing your mind, because you love me, and I love you, and it kind of seems really obvious what we should do. So, this isn’t me asking, this is me telling you: I’m going to convince you to marry me, Mr. Stark. Curse or no curse.”

He places a kiss on the back of Tony’s hand, then springs back to his feet and tears the webbing off. For a long moment they contemplate each other in silence. And then they’re kissing again, like the world depends on it. For a wild minute, Tony thinks they’re going to throw caution to the wind and go for it right there in the middle of the lab. It’s not like it would break top ten weirdest places he’s had sex. But Peter—in a show of impressive willpower—pulls away.

He stares at Tony for several long second, breathing heavily, before finally saying, “Since you were dumb enough to drink the magic potion, we should probably try to get something out of it. Run some tests to learn more before it wears off?”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, stunned, stepping back to put distance between them before he does something even dumber than drinking that potion. “Yeah, good call. Let’s get to it.”

\---

To Tony’s surprise, Peter doesn’t come by the lab the next day, or the day after that. He does text thoughts on the data they gathered while Tony was under the influence. Thoughts that boil down to a shrug emoji. Literally, that’s what he ends it with. Millennials. Or…whatever you call the generation that comes after millennials, more accurately. Tony winces at that thought.

But Peter’s not wrong about the shrug. The data is useless.

\---

 _Sorry I can’t come by, Mr. Stark_ , Peter writes after his third day away. _I have finals next week._

 _Oh, so now you care about school_? Tony types back. And then, in a supreme act of not being able to help himself, he adds, _Are you sure you aren’t trying to get me to miss you?_

Peter takes a long time to reply, long enough that Tony wonders if he missed the message, or maybe doesn’t like it. But finally he sends a picture of a pile of books. _Really studying, sir._

A few minutes later—long enough that Tony started to think the conversation was over, long enough that Peter must have been battling with himself, typing and deleting and retyping—he adds, _But if I were…is it working?_

The balls on this kid. (Yes, Tony started it this time. Still.)

 _Don’t get cocky_ , he texts back. _Study hard. I’d never forgive myself if I ruin your bright future._

But over the next few hours he considers the question seriously. It’s a good one. The short answer is yes. Yes, he misses him, of course he does, to an almost embarrassing extent. He hadn’t quite realized exactly how much having him around meant until it was rudely ripped away without warning. His skin prickles with longing for those strong, confident fingers; the lab is lonely without his smile. It’s even harder to think without him here—bouncing ideas off F.R.I.D.A.Y. or the empty walls just isn’t the same.

On the other hand, it’s been a nice break from the worst battery of the curse. No reprieve from the general feeling of being ill, of course; at this point, that’s just his life. His muscles remain weak and sore, his throat swollen, a fog creeps around his brain, making it hard to even put numbers together, let alone extrapolate larger concepts. But the crippling flare-ups that leave him gasping for breath, stretched out on the floor, begging for it to stop—he hasn’t had one in three days. No flicker of extra pain. Not since Peter left.

He has an idea about that, but he can’t tell if it’s a good theory, or wishful thinking, or maybe self-flagellation. Could be delusion. Maybe his indecision about which it is comes from his mind being too muddled to think things through. Or maybe guilt and want are stopping him from looking at things logically. He can’t even figure that part out.

All he knows for sure is he can’t stop thinking about the feel of Peter’s lips and the sight of tears glinting in his eyes. The way he got down on one knee exactly like Tony knew he would. How good he looked there. How much Tony wishes he had let himself be just a little bit weaker; he resents his conscience for choosing now to get its act together. It’s making it impossible to think about anything else clearly.

Or. _Or_. Another possibility: maybe the real reason he can’t think straight is he’s been drinking constantly since Peter left that night. That might be a factor.

He looks at the notes scattered around his desk, useless sets of calculations crossed out and redone and crossed out again, ideas building to nothing. This isn’t working, and as much as banging his head against a problem until it splits open—the problem or his head, at this point he doesn’t even care—sounds like exactly his kind of coping method, Peter was right about one thing: he has to consider Morgan. Which means he has to figure out how to solve this while he still can think.

Which means he has to go see a jackass about a theory.

\---

Strange eyes him over a cup of tea, which shakes, almost imperceptibly, in his hands. “A lot of progress, then?”

Tony resists the urge to complain that the tonics these so-called sorcerers gave him to help with the pain have turned out to be useless. Antagonism is not helpful right now and, contrary to what some people—okay, most people—would tell you, he has learned a thing or two about finessing strained interpersonal relationships over the years. Not lessons he puts to good use very often, but desperate times and all that.

“I’ve been tracking it, and the answer to my own question from before is yes, yes there is,” he says instead. “A pattern for the attacks, I mean.”

Strange carefully puts his tea to the side. His expression remains pointedly blank, but he leans forward just enough that Tony knows he’s interested. Of course he is. He might affect indifference, but Tony’s looked into his past, his career before his second act as a carnival sideshow. The man likes a challenge. Likes to take things apart and understand how they work.

“Well?” Strange finally asks, after Tony has remained purposefully silent simply for the joy of annoying him. “Did you only show up to inform me you’ve learned to keep a diary, or are you going to tell me what the pattern is?”

Definitely interested. Got him on the hook. “It’s triggered by being around a person. One specific person.” Sure, Tony hasn’t been seeing a lot of people besides Peter since this started, but Pepper has stopped by with Morgan a few times, Rhodey came over for dinner two weeks ago, Happy keeps trying to check in on him—nothing. It’s definitely Peter. He’s confident of that much. “It’s not a one-to-one correlation, but this person definitely has an effect. They aren’t around, I can go for days before an attack. They show up and _wham_ , I’m the English Patient.”

“Have you considered simply not being around this person?”

“No. Not an option.” It comes out before he can even consider it, with force that startles him. Strange, on the other hand, doesn’t look startled at all. “That’s…that wouldn’t work. Anyway, I’m not here to figure out how to stop it. I thought you might have some thoughts about if it means anything.”

“The ancient object trying to force you into marriage acts up when one particular person is present, and you want to know if it means anything?” Strange sits back and crosses his legs, exaggerated. “Yes, I suspect it does.”

Maddening. This man is maddening. “Would you like to expand on that thought, Houdini?”

“No,” Strange says, picking his tea up again. “I want to hear your theories.”

“I don’t have any theories.” Tony opens his arms in his most magnanimous gesture, inclining his head forward. “I am but a poor, lost Luddite looking for your wise insight into the mysteries of the magical arts.”

Strange looks thoroughly unimpressed with the show. “Tony, you’ve never not had a theory in your life.”

“Okay, you got me.” He shifts in his chair. It’s hard to get comfortable, despite its plush cushions. His bones feel like they’re being pried apart at the joints today, and the muscles in his back won’t stop spasming. “I assume it has something to do with the possibility of marriage to this person. But what I can’t work out is if it’s a green light or a red light.”

He holds up his hand, extending the finger where the ring sits, faintly flickering. These days, it never goes back to dull, just swings between night-light glow and full-on bonfire. He points at it.

“On one hand, maybe this thing is saying, ‘Yeah, he seems like a good choice, go seal that deal, because if you don’t, here’s what happens. Isn’t it awful? Better call the caterers and find a venue.’” He drops his hand; holding it up was starting to make his shoulder complain. “On the other hand, maybe the message it’s trying to convey is, ‘I see what you’re thinking. No, bad choice, stay away.’ A metaphorical swat on the hand. A failsafe put place in place to stop feisty ancient princesses from flying away on magic carpets with dashing thieves.”

Strange stirs his tea with infuriating deliberateness, spoon clinking against its porcelain sides. Finally, he asks, “Is there a particular answer you’re hoping for?”

This man is the worst. Just impossible to deal with. “I didn’t come here for therapy, Strange. I’m just trying to figure out what’s happening to me.”

The cup hits the coffee table with dramatic force. Strange fixes Tony with a steady stare. “You know what’s happening to you, Tony. You are under a curse that will not lift until you get married. It happens to get worse when this particular person is around. Does it _really_ make a difference whether the cursed ring approves or disapproves of your choice?”

“I didn’t say he was my choice!” But the protest is mostly about pride. As much as he hates to admit it, Strange is spot on. What exactly _is_ he looking for here? Confirmation that maybe, just maybe the ring thinks this is a good idea? As if he should be taking advice from a cursed object.

Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe he wants confirmation it’s telling him no. Maybe he needs an outside force reminding him this is a bad idea, because he’s having a hard time holding onto that fact.

Maybe, maybe.

He’s so desperate for someone to tell him what to do he’s trying to take his cues from the very thing that put him in this situation in the first place. Fuck. He’s losing it.

He realizes he hasn’t said anything for long enough that it’s awkward. Or would be, if wizards had any sense of normal social interactions. Strange seems perfectly content to sit there in silence wearing his stupid, terrible, knowing grin.

“I hate you,” Tony informs him. “I thought you were cool for about two seconds, but now I’m back to hating you.”

“I am aware.” He does not seem torn up about it. “My advice? Make a choice. This person, some other person, any person. But stop fooling yourself that you can beat this your way. You can’t.”

He waves his hand, and suddenly Tony is back in his lab. He collapses against a desk, muscles giving up entirely.

So, yeah, that was a waste of time. He knew there was a reason he hates magic.

\---

He’s supposed to spend the weekend with Morgan, but given that he can’t reliably stand for more than half an hour at a time, daddy duty is a bit out of reach. He claims the flu, but Pepper sounds skeptical.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” she asks, squinting through their video chat after he makes his apologies to the little demon, who is, fortunately, too absorbed in some school project to be upset about the change of plans. “You’ve seemed off recently, and Morgan told me you had a migraine last time she was over. Since when do you get migraines?”

Tony snorts. _Migraine_ doesn’t really cover the body-consuming agony that forced him to retreat to his room rather than spend time with his daughter. “It was a one-time thing,” he lies. “Really Pep, I’m fine, just a little under the weather. Thanks for keeping the munchkin.”

“Of course.” She raises her hand as if she’s about to cut off the video, but then pauses. “You know you can ask me if you need anything, right? I worry about you, alone in that lab all the time.”

“I’m not alone. I’ve got F.R.I., I’ve got the bots. Peter’s been coming around a lot. Seriously, all good here, just gotta kick this bug. I’ve got it handled. Don’t worry about me. Not that I don’t appreciate the show of support, I do, but we’re all good here. Nothing to need.”

He can see on her face that the more he talks the less she believes him, so he ends the call before she can press the issue. The last thing he wants is to drag someone _else_ into this mess.

He leans back in his chair and takes in the lab. Pep has a point: it does feel empty. It’s not nearly as expansive as the one he had in Malibu, and he worked alone there for years. But now this one seems absurdly massive, too much space for just one person. It’s missing laughter. He knows whose, and he knows why this space, which is supposed to be where he hides from the world, content with his own company, suddenly feels wrong without it.

He looks at the ring. It’s kicked the glow up a notch, turning unpleasantly warm against his skin, a sure sign that he’s about to feel like he’s been hit by a train. But yeah, he’s totally fine. Doesn’t need any help. All good here.

\---

Later that night— _too_ late that night, after slightly more whiskey than he’s willing to admit to—he sends Peter a text: _Good luck on the finals, kid._

Then, when that doesn’t get an immediate response: _When can I expect to see you again?_

And then, because that’s clearly inappropriate: _Not that I’m pressuring you. School comes first. And social life. And anything that’s not me._

And then, and then, because he’s just that kind of mess: _In fact, don’t worry about it._

He keeps the phone in his hand, hoping for a reply, until he passes out on the couch, booze or exhaustion or pain or all of it winning out over even his need to hear from Peter again.

\---

He wakes up to the smell of bacon, the feel of hands running through his hair, and, when the world finally resolves into focus, Peter Parker’s smile drifting above him. He belatedly realizes his head is resting not on a pillow but the hard line of a muscular thigh.

The first thing Peter does is say, “I knew you missed me,” flashing exactly the smile Tony has been thinking about far too often over the last few days. 

The second thing he does is lean over, curling at an awkward angle—bless that super-flexibility—and kiss Tony. It’s an odd position, upside-down, but Tony doesn’t care, has a hard time knowing how he’s ever cared about anything but having Peter’s lips on his. He reaches up, groping until he finds Peter’s neck, nerves exploding at the warmth of his skin. It’s so overwhelming, so _good_ , he wants to drown in it.

Eventually they stop long enough for Peter to maneuver Tony to sitting. But only long enough for that: they lunge back into each other immediately, kissing deep, craving more. Tony scatters pecks across Peter’s cheeks and down his neck, eventually stopping to nuzzle into the hollow of his collarbone. “I did miss you, kid,” he murmurs against his skin. “That disappearing act was not playing fair.”

Peter’s hands are back in his hair, comforting. A kiss grazes the top of his head. “It wasn’t to make you miss me.” He sounds sad. Regretful, even. “I really do have finals. I have one in like two hours.”

Tony pulls back, jolted out of whatever temporary insanity overcame him. Right, finals. College student. Responsible adult. Right.

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be cramming? Or…relaxing? Getting a full night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast? I seem to remember rolling out of bed in my pajamas five minutes before the test began, but I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to do it.”

“I’m here because those texts didn’t seem like you,” Peter explains, hands stubbornly falling to Tony’s knees, as if he’s not willing to stop touching him. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Which you weren’t, so…”

He shrugs and gestures at the table, where he’s set out bacon, eggs, and a glass of orange juice.

Tony’s stomach rumbles; he can’t remember the last time he ate. He definitely skipped dinner last night, and he’s not sure about lunch, either. He attempts to reach for the plate, but the world goes slanted on the way there. Peter grabs his shoulder, pushing him back against the couch, then brings the plate to him.

“Here,” he says, gently placing a fork in Tony’s hand, guiding his fingers to wrap around it. “I’ve got you.”

Tony feels tears building and shakes them off. Not the time. He carefully takes a few bites, trying to ignore that his hands are shaking so hard he can barely get a bite to his mouth without dropping it. Peter, apparently noticing, joins his hand to the one Tony has on the plate, steadying it. 

“Is your secret that bacon and eggs are the only thing you know how to cook?” Tony asks after he gets half the meal down. The attempt to project casual humor is weak at best; his voice wobbles as much as his hands. Peter is kind enough to grin anyway.

“Nah, but it actually is morning this time.” Peter takes the plate away, setting it aside, hands quickly returning to Tony’s hair. “Besides,” he adds, “wowing you with my culinary skills _is_ part of my plan, but not until date four.”

Tony’s breath catches, his heart speeds up. His head pounds, he can feel the ring starting to overheat again. Not fair. So not fair. “I don’t remember agreeing to any dates.”

“Yeah, but you will.” Peter suddenly draws back, places a kiss on Tony’s forehead, and stands, looking down at him with an expression he can’t read. “I really have to go, but I’ll be back after my test, I promise. Are you going to be okay until then? I could call Happy…”

Tony’s veins are tingling, a sure sign that within half an hour they’ll be on fire. There’s pressure building behind his eyes, which will inevitably transform into his skull crushing itself from the inside. All it took was fifteen minutes with Peter—less—and it’s off again. He nods anyway. “Yeah, kid, I’ll be fine. Break a leg.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that about tests.” Peter grabs his backpack from where it was hiding behind the couch. He gives a final smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before heading for the window. “For what it’s worth, I really missed you, too.”

Then he’s gone, and Tony’s body explodes.

\---

It’s worse than ever. Every muscle seems to contract at once, throwing him against the couch. His eyes roll back until he can’t see, his fingers tense into claws, scratching uselessly at the leather beneath him. Spasms rock down his back and through his legs; he can hear himself making gasping, desperate sounds, whining and begging and babbling, incoherent beyond the cry for it to _stop_ , just _stop_. 

He has more of that tonic Strange gave him in the bedroom, but he can’t pull up without the world tilting, turning inside out. His second attempt at standing transforms into falling. His head cracks against the side of the table, a burst of pain ripping down his face, but it’s not enough for him to pass out.

All he can do is lie there.

Lie there and scream.

\---

Eventually, hours or years or infinite time later, the attack tapers off, but not by much. Enough that he stops screaming, but not enough to be able to move from where he fell. He curls in on himself, gasping, shaking uncontrollably, eyes closed against the light. So overwhelmed he can’t place what’s happening when he hears the thud of bags hitting the floor, the shuffling of feet. Suddenly strong arms are scooping him up and onto the couch, pulling him close.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck I knew I shouldn’t leave, I’m so sorry, fuck, I’m sorry.” That’s Peter, he realizes. Peter’s voice, Peter’s desperate babbling. Those are Peter’s hand rubbing comforting circles on his back, Peter’s body that’s so solid and warm, Peter’s neck his face is suddenly pressed against. He breathes in the smell of him, cotton and sweat and skin. It helps him relax, so he does it again, and is surprised to realize he’s crying. He lets himself: melts into Peter and sobs.

\---

Even after he finally gets the tears under control—minutes later, or maybe longer, his sense of time lost—he keeps clinging to that firm touch, basking in the safety of the moment. He knows that as soon as he raises his head he’s going to have to go back to fighting a fight that he doesn’t even want to win. But he can only keep his face nestled against Peter’s shoulder for so long.

He pulls away. He’s expecting Peter’s determined expression, the fierce and defiant one he first saw on a rooftop so many years ago. Instead, he’s met by something completely different: eyes rimmed red, a face streaked with tears to match his own.

Devastation. The expression is devastation, and he’s the reason Peter looks like that. It’s his fault.

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” he pleads, the endearment coming so naturally it’s frightening. “Please don’t—fuck, don’t cry because of me. I hate that.” He reaches out to wipe the tears, but Peter swats his hand away. “What—”

“ _You_ hate that _I’m_ crying?” Peter’s voice cracks as he says it, jumping high at the end. He clears his throat and continues, steadier, “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?”

Tony has no idea how to respond to that, so he tries a weak, “Yes?”

Peter lets out an exasperated sound, somewhere between a sigh and growl, and collapses backward, scrunching himself into the corner of the couch as if he’s trying to get away from Tony. “Okay, well if you hate that _I’m_ crying, imagine how I feel.”

“Pete—”

“I’m serious, Mr. Stark.” He curls his knees into his chest, retreating even further into his corner. “Take one second to actually think about how seeing you like this makes me feel. Knowing I could fix you like that”—he snaps his fingers—“by doing something I really want to do anyway. Something I didn’t even let myself dream could ever be possible, would ever be something you could want. Except it turns out _yes_ , you _do_ want it. But you refuse anyway because—what? You’re really stubborn? Imagine all that, plus now finding you on the floor for the second time and just—don’t tell me that you hate that _I’m_ crying. That’s so unfair.”

Yeah. Okay. True. All of that is true. All of that is—fuck. Exactly why he never should have let Peter get involved. He was so selfish. _Is_ so selfish, because even as he’s thinking it, he’s also reaching in Peter’s direction, pawing at the couch. “I know, I know, kid. I’m sorry. I told you, you can tap out—”

“Nope, no, sorry, I don’t think you’re getting the situation.” Peter takes the offered hand, gripping it tightly. “I tried that. Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you? That wasn’t about getting you to miss me. I was confused, and kinda angry and pretty overwhelmed and I—I didn’t know if I could handle it anymore. But you know what? I hated it. I hated every second of not being here for you even more than I hate seeing you like this.”

His grip gets even tighter, painful. Tony doesn’t complain, too grateful to be touching him to be picky about the form. He squeezes back. Peter’s tone is gentler as he finishes, “So, no, Mr. Stark, I’m not ‘tapping out.’ I’m going to be here and I’m going take care of you and try to woo you and be angry with you all at the same time, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.” He punctuates the rant with a sniffle, using the inside wrist of his free hand, the one that isn’t still clinging to Tony, to brush away stray tears.

“That was quite a speech, kid.”

It’s not an adequate response, but Tony isn’t sure he has much more in him right now. Everything is sore and terrible; he’s drowning in it, dragging Peter down with him because he’s too selfish to let go. Fucking up everything he touches: the real Tony Stark superpower.

And yet here Peter is. Still. Refusing to give up. Acting like the only problem is _Tony_. As if it’s a bad thing that he refuses to tie him to his bullshit forever. God, he’s so fucking young. So naive.

Or maybe just very, very brave.

“So,” Tony adds, suddenly desperate to change the subject, “what was that about wooing me, and does it involve food? And can it happen right now? Because I haven’t eaten all day.”

\---

It turns out the bags Tony heard drop are filled with takeout from Peter’s favorite hole-in-the-wall Tibetan place, which he tells Tony about as he plates the noodles and momos, setting them out on the coffee table, suddenly acting lighthearted. It’s a forced performance, unconvincing, but if he’s willing to pretend everything’s okay, that tense emotions aren’t hanging, thick, over the room, Tony is more than happy to pretend along with him.

“Why Tibetan?” he asks once the food is served, more to have something to say than because he really cares. “It’s an unusual choice.”

Peter frowns, taking a seat on the ground on the other side of the table, across from the couch. He pulls a plate toward himself. “First dates are normally casual, right? Just feeling out if we like each other? So—cheap, off the beaten path, delicious. It seemed like a good idea. Is it not a good idea?”

“Food’s great,” Tony assures him. From the few bites he’s already wolfed down, it really is, though he’s hungry enough that he’d have been happy with anything. Peter doesn’t need to know that. “As for the rest of it, I couldn’t possibly tell you what a normal first date is supposed to be like. I don’t think I’ve ever been on one in my life. But whatever else is going on here, I’m pretty sure we’re past the part where we need to figure out if we like each other.”

The fact that Peter blushes and looks down at that, suddenly bashful, is maybe the cutest thing Tony has ever seen. Which is extraordinarily unhelpful. He shouldn’t be allowed to be that adorable.

“I know, Mr. Stark. But I thought maybe if we went through all the normal steps of dating, sped up—maybe then you would see that this could work. I don’t know, it sounds dumb when I say it out loud, but that’s the plan.” He looks back up, and those damn eyes are filled with tears again. So much for lighthearted. They were fooling themselves if they thought that could last for an entire meal, though Tony had honestly expected to make it a little longer than this. “I don’t know what else to do, sir.”

The simple sincerity of it breaks Tony’s heart. As if Tibetan food, dinner and a movie, whatever else he has planned—as if any of that could change who Tony is. He puts his fork down, sitting a little straighter. He can’t keep putting this off, then. Time to get serious.

“It’s a good plan, kid. It’s…sweet. It’s really sweet. But the normal steps of dating? That’s the entire problem. I don’t do that. I’m not normal. I’m the guy who spent most of his life falling into bed with people he barely knew. I mean, the stuff I’d done before you were even born…” He stops himself with a cringe. He doesn’t really want to think about exactly how young the person he was kissing a few hours ago is.

“I don’t care about that—”

Tony holds up his hand before Peter can get a protest going in earnest. He needs to get this out. Make it clear. “And _then_ , after I was the one-night-stand and multiple-sex-tapes guy—then I was the guy who finally found someone great. Someone who was willing to put up with all of my shit. But instead of pulling back just a little, just enough to make it work, you know what I did? I kept piling on more shit until she couldn’t stand it anymore.”

He gestures at himself, trying to sweep decades of disaster, of disappointing anyone who ever tried to care, into a single arm movement. “That’s who I am, Pete. I can see the future, and it’s me putting you through hell until you resent that you ever picked me. Only this time, divorce won’t be an option.”

Peter is silent for a long time. Then he puts his fork down and straightens his spine, mirroring Tony.

“Maybe,” he says, dragging the word out, as if he’s thinking it over. “Maybe you’re right. But honestly, I’d say if both of us manage to stay alive long enough for me to resent you, we’d be doing pretty great. I mean, I already died once.”

Tony sucks in air so quickly he chokes on it. Peter doesn’t talk about that very often. Oblique mentions, yes. Sideways reminders, the occasional suggestion about how much he owes Tony, or things he missed in those five years. But laying it out, blunt, unmasked? That’s not something he does. In fact, Tony’s not sure he’s ever put it so starkly.

Peter lets the statements linger. If he’s doing it for effect, it’s working. Finally, he adds, lighter, almost joking, “And it’s not like you could cheat on me, so I’m actually pretty unclear on what you think you’re going to do that I’ll hate so much.”

So young, if he thinks cheating is the only way couples can hurt each other. For all Tony’s faults, that was never one of them. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Pete, let’s think about it.” He counts on his fingers, checking off a list he’s repeated to himself so many times, it comes automatically. “I’m self-absorbed, I’m selfish, I drink too much. I deal with problems by locking myself in my lab for days at a time. I do that for fun, too, by the way, and I get really pissy if anyone tries to drag me out when I’m onto something, even if I’m supposed to go to an important meeting. Or date night. I’m very bad at prioritizing date nights.”

Peter’s expression has turned quizzical, almost amused, which is not the intended effect at all. Okay, fine, time to bring out the big guns. “And I’m a self-sacrificing control freak who won’t ever give up trying to save everyone, even when it puts my life and family at risk. Because I can’t. I _can’t_. I tried for five full years, and in the end I went right back to it and almost died, and all that did was convince me I never wanted to stop again. Because the sad truth is I only feel like myself when I have this on my chest.” He taps the nanobot casing, which has not left his body since the incident with the truth serum. “Do I need to go on?”

“Uh, yeah, kinda.” Peter stands, walking around the table and then sitting next to him, close enough to press their knees together. He takes his hand, the one he’d been counting on, and flips it over to expose the palm. He traces a heart in the center. “Right now what I’m hearing is mostly wrong or irrelevant.”

Tony can’t resist meeting Peter’s eyes. They’re so big, hopeful and understanding. Beautiful. If he could stare into those eyes for the rest of his life, he’d be content.

Which is. You know. Exactly what Peter is offering.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “I’m going to need you to explain that thought, Mr. Parker. Because I’ve spent a lot of time cataloging my own flaws. I’d dare say they’re one of my main areas of expertise, along with world-changing scientific innovations and disappointing people. I think my list is spot on.”

“Nope,” Peter disagrees. He taps the pad of his forefinger against Tony’s fingers, repeating his count. “Self-absorbed and selfish are just wrong. Drinking too much I’ll give you, but I think I can handle that. Locking yourself in your lab? You know I’ll be right there with you. That is literally the best date night I can think of. And as for the rest of it—” He brings the hand to his lips, placing a kiss in the center, exactly where he’d traced the heart. “Look at who you’re talking to. We can team up. The couple that saves lives together stays together.”

He kisses Tony’s palm again and then takes a deep breath, expression going serious. “Honestly Mr. Stark, it’s not like I haven’t thought about this. I’ve thought about it a lot, and we make sense. We really, really do. I know you think I should date someone my own age or—what? Actually, I don’t really get what you think I should do, because if there’s anyone who understands why normal relationships don’t work for me, it’s you.”

He stops, then shrugs, and, in a movement so swift Tony barely registers what’s happening, shoves the coffee table away from the couch and drops to his knees, somehow managing not to let go of Tony’s hand as he does it. “So, uh, yeah. That’s my pitch. Can we _please_ get married now? Not that I don’t have more dates planned because I totally do, but I’m really worried you’re not going to be able to even get out of bed soon, and then none of them will work. Please, sir?”

Wow.

That was—that was pretty persuasive. Lost some steam at the end there, but the rest of it? Yeah, convincing.

Or maybe it’s just that Tony is just very, very sick of this. Not of the pain, but of saying no to something he wants. Of saying no to those eyes, so wide and welcoming.

He doesn’t want to say no anymore.

So fuck it. He won’t.

He lets the enormity of that thought settle. Is he really going to let himself do this? He looks down at Peter, who gazes back with tenderness so palpable he can feel it, a caress that runs under his skin, hitting someplace deeper than logic.

Yes, he realizes. This is the moment he stops fighting. This is the moment he can’t say no again.

But there’s no way their engagement story involves Peter begging. That’s not how it should go.

“Okay, you, up on the couch,” he instructs, pointing to where Peter had been sitting before his attempt at proposal 2.0.

Peter hesitates for a second. Then, moving slowly, as if he’s waiting for something bad to happen, he makes his way to the spot, leaving them eye-to-eye. But that’s not quite right either.

“Actually,” Tony corrects, “could you do me a favor and sit up here?” He pats the spot. “I need you above me for this, and I haven’t had positive experiences with being on the floor today.”

Peter’s face registers understanding, and he follows Tony’s instructions instantly, perching himself on the back of the couch. He’s gone red, and when Tony takes his hand again he clutches back so tightly Tony can feel his bones rub together. He still doesn’t complain about it.

Instead he clears his throat, heart beating loudly enough it drowns everything else out. Peter deserves a good speech. A great one. The very best proposal ever. He’s definitely not going to get it, though. Hey—that’s a place to start.

“Pete, this is not how I imagined doing this.” 

Peter makes a kind of desperate choked sound in the back of his throat. His free hand flies to his mouth, covering it.

“Actually,” Tony continues, “I didn’t imagine doing this at all. I wouldn’t let myself imagine it. But if I had, it wouldn’t have been this. I would have had a great speech planned. But you’re the one who’s signing up for life with me, and more often than not, life with me is like this: hard, and all wrong, and not what you deserve. But if you really think you’re okay with that…kid, there’s no one I’d rather have along for the ride. So, fuck it. Let’s get married.”

\---

Less than an hour later they’re at Strange’s door. They both agree getting this thing done ASAP is the way to go: Peter because he doesn’t want Tony to change his mind, Tony because he wants the pain to stop. And a little because he doesn’t want himself to change his mind, either. He doesn’t need his better judgement catching up to him. Not when this is the lightest he’s felt since the curse kicked in. Since before that, too. Since longer than he cares to think about.

Peter keeps glancing at him and giggling, and Tony can’t help but laugh along with him. He takes his hand, interlacing their fingers, then brings it to his lips, kissing each fingertip in turn. They didn’t have time to get Peter a ring—barely took time to get dressed, though Tony insisted on putting on a suit and lending Peter a blazer to go over his jeans and t-shirt—but he’ll make up for that later. He’ll get Peter an engagement ring, or watch, or necklace. Or suit. Yeah, an engagement Spider-suit, that sounds right.

“Are you absolutely positive?” he asks, lifting the heavy knocker adorning the sanctum’s entrance. “Pretty soon you’re not going to be able to take it back.”

“Positive,” Peter confirms. “I’ve never been more positive of anything. Really.”

Tony knocks.

\---

When Strange answers the door several agonizing minutes later, he doesn’t even attempt to look surprised.

“Do you realize it’s nine in the evening?” he asks, beckoning them in. “You could have called first. It’s going to take me an hour to prepare for the ritual.”

“No ‘hello, how are you, congratulations’?” Tony complains as they follow him inside. “Do they not teach manners at Hogwarts?”

“Hello, congratulations, how are you,” Strange repeats back, not bothering to suppress his eye roll. His cloak has decided to join him today; it waves cheerily, managing to leave the impression that it, at least, is happy for them.

“We’re great!” Peter jumps in. He holds up their clasped hands. “Really excited. Thanks for doing this such last minute, Doctor Strange. We didn’t want to wait any longer, because of the whole curse thing.” He points at Tony and imitates falling over in pain. “It’s really, really nice of you.”

First the first time, Strange’s expression thaws a little. “It’s not a problem. But don’t you want anyone else here? You have an aunt, right?”

“Yeah, I do.” For the briefest moment Peter’s face shows concern, but then he cheers up, grin returning as bright as before. “But it’s okay. We talked about it on the way over. This is just the magical, break-the-curse ceremony. We’ll have a real one later, after we’ve dated for a while. May would flip if I showed up tonight all, ‘guess what? I’m getting married!’ I mean, we’re talking finding-out-I’m-Spider-Man level freak-out.”

Peter keeps up a constant stream of chatter as they make their way through a labyrinth of halls. At one point, Tony catches Strange smiling. His future husband, ladies and gentleman: the kind of person who can charm even Mr. Above It All.

How did he get so lucky?

\---

They wait in the receiving room, resting on the same couch where Tony first learned about the curse. Again, he’s sprawled across it; again, the slow thrum of agony hums through his body. If he were the kind of person who went in for making more out of coincidences than he should, he’d say the parallel is poetic. The difference is, now there’s an end in sight.

And a more important difference: now, his head is pillowed on Peter’s lap, Peter’s fingers are tracing patterns on his chest. He’s rambling, explaining his ideas for their future. He’ll stay in school, of course, and stay in his dorm. They’ll go on dates (“I mean, I came up with so many good ideas, and I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to do them all, but now you’re going to be better so we have to! Did you know you can go mini-golfing on the piers? And they’re showing _Aliens_ in Prospect Park in a few weeks…”). They’ll slowly— _slowly_ —introduce their friends to the idea. Occasionally spend the night. Build up to living together over a few years.

“It’ll be like we aren’t even married, except we will be,” Peter assures him. “It’ll be total fine.”

Tony smiles and nods, letting Peter’s words wash over him in a comforting lull. It’s not going to work out like that, of course. Someone’s going to find out. Not about the marriage, they can trust Strange on that. But the relationship? No way they can be out in public that often without someone catching on. It’ll be all over the tabloids. May will flip out. Pepper will flip out. Everyone will flip out. And they _definitely_ won’t be able to keep overnights to a reasonable number. Tony is already mentally clearing drawers and making Peter a spare key.

It’s all going to be much rockier than Peter is making it seem. And yet, carried along by his enthusiasm, Tony can’t help but think—hope—that maybe he’s right. Maybe it will be totally fine.

\---

It’s not an auspicious ceremony. Peter suggests they do it on the roof because that way at least they’ll have a nice view of the city. It’s better than one of the musty rooms of the sanctum, but it means the whole thing is pervaded by a biting wind and the sound of honking horns floating up from the streets bellow.

Strange does the honors, with Wong as their witness. He, at least, has the sense to look surprised when he sees who Tony is marrying. That shouldn’t make Tony feel better, but somehow it does; it adds a little bit of sanity to what is perhaps the most insane moment of his life. _Yeah_ , he wants to say. _Yeah, I know_.

Instead, he just nods in Wong’s direction, giving him a small shrug. Acknowledging that yes, this is kind of insane. And yes, he’s doing it anyway. When he looks back at Peter and sees the stupid, amazing smile that hasn’t left his face since the moment they walked into the building, he can’t bring himself to care.

He doesn’t really register the vows, repeating back the ancient requirements Strange intones at them without taking in their content. Doesn’t hear the spell, which transforms into flaming orange tendrils creeping up their arms, binding them together. Barely even notices when light bursts from the ring, snaking out to wrap around Peter’s finger, burning a mark there, red and smooth.

No, the only thing his mind has room for is the way Peter looks at him through it all, bright and joyful. The smile on his lips, the steady grip of his hands. He’s so sure, he radiates it. He’s not doing this to save Tony, or because he feels like he should. Every part of him wants him. Every part of him is confident it’s a good choice.

Tony lets himself get lost in that. Lets himself believe it, too.

He doesn’t hear Strange say it’s time to kiss, but Peter must, because suddenly they are, and it might be the most perfect moment of Tony’s life.

The pain drains from his body, but he barely even notices that, either.

\---

Thirty seconds later, he collapses, relief, exhaustion, joy all piling on top of each other, too much for his legs to bear. But Peter’s there to lift him back up. To hear Strange’s instructions about taking care of him. To carry him through a portal and into bed, where he props him against pillows, kisses his forehead and then his neck, whispers, “I’m going to take care of you.”

He strips Tony out of his suit, slowly, careful as he maneuvers the jacket around his arms. Tony notices his fingers tremble when he starts to undo the buttons on his shirt. He joins with his own, which tremble too, but together they make it work. 

When the shirt finally falls open, Peter stops to gawk. Really, gawk, mouth open. Undignified, but definitely adorable.

“You know, you’re allowed to touch,” Tony points out, amused, as Peter hovers over him like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “It comes with the territory.”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, I know. This is just…a big moment for me. Give me a second.” Then, reverently, he places his hand on Tony’s chest, right below the nanobot casing. Tony shows him how to remove it, guiding him to the buttons that allow it to unlatch. They set it to the side.

“Wow,” Peter breathes, fingers ghosting over the place where the arc reactor used to sit, tracing the seam where smooth scar meets the rest of Tony’s chest. “So this is where…wow.”

That scar normally makes Tony feel vulnerable, exposed, but reflected in Peter’s face it’s something different. Not a reminder of how close he’s been to death, but a mark of bravery. Heroism.

And now the person who looks at him like that is his husband. Unbelievable. 

“It’s our wedding night,” he says, shrugging the shirt the rest of the way off. Even that much movement leaves him winded. He falls back against the pillows. “Under other circumstances I would be rocking your world right now. I’m sorry that I’m a little too exhausted to, um, move.”

Peter smiles, hand moving downward, fingers trailing through the hair under Tony’s bellybutton, coming to rest at his belt buckle. “No problem, Mr. Stark. How about you let me rock your world instead?”

Tony giggles. He can’t help it; that sounds ridiculous coming out of Peter’s mouth. But Peter immediately looks crestfallen at the response. Fuck. It’s been about two seconds and he’s already messed up. He scrambles to recover. “Kid, you already have. You’ve completely and totally rocked my world.”

For a moment, it’s like the entire universe has gone silent, the enormity of what they’ve done settling around them. Tony is afraid Peter is about to freak out, finally realize that he’s changed his life, irrevocably. 

Instead, he smirks and starts undoing the buckle. “Yeah, but let me try another away.”

\---

Peter’s not actually as smooth as he wants to be, and Tony’s not much help in the state he’s in, so getting his pants off becomes an exercise in awkwardness. Peter fumbles the buckle; Tony nearly kicks him when he accidentally brushes the spot on the inside of his knee that always tickles. They forget about shoes, so Peter has to stop to deal with those. And then it starts all over with the underwear.

Long story short, by the time Tony’s actually naked, they’re both breathless with giddy laughter.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Peter giggles as he tosses Tony’s briefs to the side. “I’m a disaster.”

Tony reaches for him, and Peter falls into his arms, still laughing. Also, Tony realizes, still fully clothed.

“You’re not a disaster,” he assures him. “You’re perfect.” He pulls at the blazer. “You’d be more perfect if you were wearing less clothing, but other than that, no complaints here.”

“Tony Stark just told me to take my clothes off,” Peter reflects as he starts to do just that, straddling Tony as the blazer falls to the floor, his t-shirt chasing after it. “That’s insane.”

“Tony Stark is your husband, and what is insane are those abs.” It’s true. This isn’t the first time Tony has seen Peter without a shirt—he’s changed in the lab before—but it is the first time he’s allowed himself to look. He’s compact, lean, defined in a way that makes Tony want to trace his fingers over every inch of him, memorizing each dip and line.

Which he can do. He has a lifetime.

It’s that thought, more than anything, that makes his cock swell. That body is his now. That sweet, shy smile, those eyes, bright under hooded lashes. That laugh. That voice, full of awe as he repeats, “Tony Stark is my husband, yeah. Holy shit. _Holy shit_.”

Again: _how_ did he get so lucky?

He brings his hands to the edge of Peter’s jeans, curling his fingers into his belt loops. He can see Peter’s dick twitch at the contact, even through the confines of the pants. “Tony Stark would also like you to take these off. And Tony Stark is going to stop talking in the third person, because he realizes it’s getting weird.”

“Just a little,” Peter agrees, hopping off the bed long enough to shimmy his pants down, taking his boxers with them.

He really is perfect: ass tight and round, dick slim but long enough that it’ll be a fun challenge to deepthroat properly. Which is something Tony wants to do like, right now. Except he can barely lift his head to reach for a kiss when Peter returns to the bed. It will have to wait.

Peter settles back into his arms, stretching across him, and it’s like every moment they’ve ever touched multiplied past comprehension. Tony’s body erupts with desire, a need to feel him everywhere. He traces his spine, from his neck to the crest of his ass, and Peter shivers against him, cock throbbing into his hip.

“This is insane,” he whispers, burying his face in Tony’s shoulder. Overwhelmed. He’s overwhelmed.

Tony is suddenly glad that he’s basically out of commission. If he could, the primal and possessive part of him would throw Peter onto the mattress, take him apart inch-by-inch until he’s nothing but a mess of raw nerves screaming Tony’s name. And he’s sure he’ll do that, one day. One day soon. Probably lots of days, actually. Hopefully lots and lots and lots of days.

But that’s not what Peter needs right now. What he needs is Tony bringing his hands to his face, guiding their foreheads together. Tony telling him, “This is not insane. This is you and me, kid. As someone recently pointed out, we make sense together.”

Peter nods, bumping his nose against Tony’s. “Right. You and me. Got it, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s cock jerks, spilling precome across his stomach. Turns out _that’s_ a thing he likes to hear. File it away for another day. It will go well with the raw nerves, take-Peter-apart plan. But it’s their wedding night, which calls for something a little different. “I feel like we may have reached the point in our relationship where you start calling me Tony,” he says in his best attempt at a calming voice.

“Yeah, right. Good point. Tony.” Peter smiles and repeats it: “Tony. _Tony_.”

And, okay, the good news is Tony likes hearing that, too, desire pooling in his stomach. He has a feeling he’ll like hearing anything Peter wants to call him.

Peter repeats his name again and then kisses him, soft. Hesitant. Funny, when kissing is the one thing they’ve already done, but Tony lets him set the pace. It doesn’t take long until he’s more comfortable, lips parting, tongue getting involved. Tony goes back to stroking his back and Peter instantly arches, dick pressing against Tony’s hip as he makes a small, needy sound, almost pained.

“This okay?” Tony asks, pausing his movement. “I can stop, I can change—”

Peter shakes his head furiously, hips rocking, smearing a wet spot across Tony’s stomach. “If you stop I will kill you.” He freezes as soon as it’s out of his mouth, then hides against Tony’s shoulder again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Are you kidding, kid?” Tony runs his hand along Peter’s back again, earning another shudder. The wet spot on his stomach gets thicker. “That was hot. Please feel free to always tell me that the things I’m doing are so good you’ll kill me if I stop.”

“I swear I’ve had sex before,” Peter whispers, sounding painfully embarrassed. “I promise I’m not this lame. Normally. You’re just…you.”

“Please stop apologizing, Pete.” Tony rubs his dick against Peter’s thigh. “Feel that? That is me having absolutely no problem with any of this. And the feeling is mutual, by the way.”

That gets Peter to look up. Somewhere along the line he’s turned bright red, flush running down his neck and across his chest. It’s ridiculously attractive. “It can’t be. I’ve been into you literally forever. There’s no way this is as crazy for you as it is for me.”

Tony shifts, just slightly, but enough that their cocks touch, sending an electric jolt through him that’s echoed on Peter’s face, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open.

“My feelings are a bit more recent, I’ll give you that.” Tony starts to move, slow thrusts that pull shuddering gasps out of Peter, who responds, matching his pace. “And I can’t even say I know what it’s like to sleep with your high school crush, because I never went to high school. But Peter, trust me, I’m the lucky one here.”

Peter makes a hysterical sound, dropping his head to the pillow next to Tony. “No offense, but that actually is insane,” he pants, thrusts picking up speed. Tony’s heart pounds in his ears; each stroke radiates through his body, tight want mounting faster than he thought possible. “You’re Tony Stark. Iron Man. I mean, oh my god, you’re _you_.”

“And you’re Peter Parker,” Tony replies. He rubs his face against Peter’s hair, wraps his arms around his back, clutching him as close as possible, giving into the rising wave of pleasure. “Spider-Man. Brave, and smart, and kind, and—fuck, yes, faster— _fuck_ —and, and hot, you’re so fucking hot, kid, it’s unfair, and— _yes_ , _fuck_ —”

He’s not sure who comes first: Peter stiffens and gasps his name at the same moment his own orgasm rips through him. He can’t remember the last time he came from so little; can’t remember the last time it felt this good, so encompassing he isn’t even bothered by the sticky warmth that stains his stomach and chest.

He holds Peter close as they ride out their pleasure, repeating, over and over, “I love you, I love you, I’m so lucky, Peter, I love you.”

\---

The next morning, he wakes to the sight of Peter curled in his arms, watching him from under heavy eyelids, pleased smile playing around his lips. For the first time in months, nothing hurts. He smiles back.

“Hi, kid,” he says. “Regret everything yet?”

Peter shakes his head, eyes crinkling. “I think I’m going to regret not studying for the history final I have later, but other than that, I’m good. I’m really, really good. You?”

Tony runs his hand over Peter’s hip and around to his back, finding the place where it dips and curves, just above his ass. “I do regret that I wasn’t able to break the curse with science,” he muses. “I really hate it when Strange is right. But professional pride aside—yeah, I’m really good too.”

\---

Eventually Peter leaves for his test—after another round of making out, this time with added blowjobs—and Tony gets out of bed. He luxuriates in the simple pleasure of walking across the apartment, taking long free strides without any muscles protesting. He’s able to look at the sun glancing off the skyscraper across the street, appreciating the beauty of the view in a way he never has before. He does jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, working up a sweat, loving every moment of it.

Then he sits down with his tablet and starts drafting an itinerary. Yes, Peter wants to try to treat this like a normal, new relationship. And he’s right, they’ll have to take parts of it slow. But they just got married. _Married_. And Peter spent the last few months doing nothing but take care of him. So they’re going on a honeymoon, and Tony’s going to make sure it’s the best damn honeymoon in the history of honeymoons. Next one on the list won’t even come close.

It’s only a start. Only a small step toward repaying Peter for what he’s done. What he’s sacrificed, even if he doesn’t see it that way: his whole life. They’re in this for good, no escape hatch. So forget Tony’s list of flaws, forget all the ways he’ll fuck up. That’s off the table. Only one choice now.

He’s going to make it worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is very much appreciated and cherished.
> 
> Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Breaking Point](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936652) by [sophinisba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/pseuds/sophinisba)




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